


Spiders

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Category: Emelan - Pierce
Genre: F/F, Showers, Spiders, character growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosethorn spots a spider in the shower and is ashamed of her fear and herself. She has one person only she'll go to for a discussion on the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I was a teenager, before Rosethorn's backstory really unfolded, but I think most of it still has the potential to fit. Character exploration of Rosethorn and Lark based on a true story. Don't blame me--I wrote ridiculous things as a teenager. It's not the worst coping method...

            “I nearly killed a spider,” Rosethorn announced as she entered Lark’s bedroom. The woman was sitting on her bed in a thin nightgown, a book resting on her knee; she looked up and cocked a brow.

            “Are congratulations in order?” she inquired, her voice low as she knew, without a doubt, the answer to come.

            Rosethorn stared at her, hard and long. “No.”

            They watched one another until Lark took a breath closed her book on a small section of silk ribbon. She took her time in placing it on the night stand, rearranging herself into a cross-legged position and patting the bed next to her. “No, certainly not. Come in.”

            Rosethorn dipped her head and walked into Lark's small sleeping quarters, shutting the door behind her. She tightened the robe she wore; Lark noticed that her skin was pink from scrubbing and her hair was wet. The situation unfolded further.

            “You were bathing…” Lark began.

            “And as I stepped in I spotted a spider,” Rosethorn continued. She held herself stiffly as she sat; she was a grown woman ashamed of her fear. “My gut clenched.”

            “And you…?” Her companion pressed gently.

            “First I bathed watching it, glancing at the sand scrub here and there to avoid dropping it. I was afraid the spider would fall.”

            “Did it?”

            “No. It crawled up and down, precarious. I flinched at each near-fall. Then I couldn't take it anymore: I cupped water and splashed it a few times. When I hit it, it curled. I panicked every time. I didn't know what was worse: bathing with a live spider or killing it.”

            “But you didn't kill it. What happened?” Lark asked. She was the only one to see this side of Rosethorn, as far as she was aware. Anyone would assume Rosethorn was fully capable of mashing a spider into a green, gutsy pulp the way she rattled off threats like Lark did compliments. It was true that that was part of Rosethorn, but there was something deeper than that: the part that cared too much; the part that frightened Rosethorn, because it could hurt her.

            “I was close to taking an _innocent_ life out of my own unfounded fear… I was so ashamed that I left the bath, toweled myself off and picked up the spider. Brought it outside and checked it was still alive. It was.” Rosethorn gazed at her clenched fist. “I took a breath and went back to bathing. Here I am.”

            Lark waited. She guessed there was more.

            “I can't even kill a pathetic little spider without feeling sick and panicked.”

            More.

            “_I'm_ pathetic.”

            There.

            “You are _not_ pathetic, Rosethorn. As much as you think that a big kind heart is the downfall of humanity, it isn't,” Lark reminded. “And what’s more, you're fine in that you hide it well. No one knows but me and a handful of trusted friends.”

            “What if that isn't enough? What if I _want_ kill a spider without all this guilt? I've killed fully-grown men and women in self-defense, yet I can't kill a spider in the bathhouses,” Rosethorn snapped. She was glaring at the wall, but Lark knew that if Rosethorn could glare at herself she would be. “It’s not even about vows. I’ve seen _Moonstream_ tread on a roach. My conscience makes me weak.”

            “Do you truly want to kill a spider, Rosethorn?” Lark questioned. “Is that what makes a person strong? If you saw me kill a spider in the bathhouse, would you think it made me strong?”

            Rosethorn’s body clenched from her face down to her extremities. Her jaw shut fast; Lark could see it was grinding.

            “I know you wouldn’t. You would growl at me—and more to anyone else,” Lark insisted. She took Rosethorn’s tight fist and worked it loose with soft fingers, the way she would a stubborn knot. She kissed the raised knuckles and looked steadily into Rosethorn’s narrowed gaze. “What do you think is stronger, having the power to destroy that which is smaller than you—or having the strength to follow your own convictions and conscience, even against the weight of your fears?”

            Rosethorn looked down and away. Lark could feel the hand loosen further.

            “Do you really want to kill a spider—to be _able_ to kill a spider?” Lark’s voice was close to a whisper.

            “No,” Rosethorn stated, with a firmness closer to her usual tone.

            “Is it really about the spider?”

            Rosethorn sighed and loosened her jaw. “No.”

            Lark covered their joined hands and brought them into her lap. “Do you honestly think you’re pathetic and weak for your conscience and compassion? Would you let anyone else get away with thinking you less for having them?”

            “_No_,” Rosethorn answered immediately. “I’d tell them they’d be sick if they had to put up with a conscience like mine.”

            “Good. You’d be right.” Lark’s lips quirked into a grin. “Are you sick of me treating you like a child?”

            “Mila yes!” Lark’s grin widened until Rosethorn was observing her with suspicion. “I’m still feeling coddled—”

            “I’m not certain if tickling would be considered treating you like a child, or as foreplay…”

            Rosethorn’s eyebrow rose slowly, followed by the corner of her lips. Lark watched the woman’s features morph until she could take no more and pounced, fingers eager to graze over Rosethorn’s freshly-showered skin and through her damp curls.

            Eventually, despite their thrashing and convulsive laughter and protests, the two found themselves halfway under Lark’s sheet, her fingers tracing lower until they met the springy curls between Rosethorn’s legs.

            “Rosethorn?”

            “If this has anything to do with spiders, I'll hang you from the ceiling.”

            “Never, dear,” Lark assured, pressing her lips to the skin of Rosethorn’s cheek and the crease of her lips. “I had motherly advice.”

            “I hate advice. You’re risking asphyxiation,” Rosethorn replied, although her features relaxed with each stroke of Lark’s digit near her core. She breathed out heavily and lifted her chin.

            “You sure are inventive this evening. It is merely this: you shouldn't rub at your skin so; you’ll rub it right off.” With Lark kissing down her neck to nip at her collarbone, she didn’t think Rosethorn minded the comment.

            “Complaints about my skin? Not soft enough for you, is it?” Rosethorn breathed out. The two shared a smile as Lark grazed Rosethorn’s folds with her thumb and laughed.

            “Oh no, my love. As soft as the sheets you're going to hang me with.”

            “I won’t if you just keep rubbing—you won’t rub _that_ off…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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